Man, I hurt. My accident of three weeks ago has left me two stiff knees, broken bones in both forearms, assorted pain I think is more broken bones in my hands and wrists, and perhaps a strained tendon in the ankle which rolled. My shoulder hurts from what I suspect is bursitis, and if I told you how it occurred doing nothing you would shake your head. The minor but ever-present ache in my right hip seems almost superfluous at this point. All of this inspired this poem.
August 2026.
New pains attack daily. Old ones settle in like fringe relatives who won't leave. Memories don't fail, they crowd each other out. Challenges also pile up, sapping desire to grapple 'yet again' with those never- ending tasks which repeat.
But....
Small moments harbor poignancy unfelt in youthful years. Sunsets seem more magical, plants more interesting. Good meals sustain constant pleasure. Music, books span decades! Undoable projects, now doable. Time? Alternately your friend, your enemy.
It’s…a poem. Conceived while driving 35mph around turns, barely speeding up on a short straightaway, then braking for the next set of chicanery.
Rumble Strip
Rumble, grumble, rumble strip. Tell me I've transgressed. Painted lines define my limits but frankly, I protest. Sometimes you hide between those lines, sometimes you sit right on them. We won't discuss your shoulder twin who keeps me on all roads. On this mountain highway, full of twists, of turns, it's not too likely I'll nod off, bored, but still you're stern. Worse than my car's lane-keeping notes, which shrilly scold just me, you warn each transgressing car so non-discriminately. I'll mention briefly how you blind when rain sits in your grooves: when puddles bounce bright sunshine into my eyes--so rude. In short, your presence seems quite useless on this twisting mountain road. Why don't you haunt our cities, and quit this useless scold.
colors add nothing to dim lighting dark wood panels evoking creepy scenes of disciplinary sessions. Spa-like ambiance collides with strict Catholic teachings. "how many days will you be staying with us?" Bars (plural)? Sure, tolerated then, now. Amoral 'cosmic travelers'? More problematic. Why wonder about your nightly bill when surrounded by such groovy wonderfulness?
This one’s a definite work in progress and likely an opening act for something much larger, perhaps joined to another couple I’ve written lately.
Looking SW at Vantage, WA. Look closely and maybe you can see the Columbia River. Perhaps you can see the bridge for I-90 across the bridge? Surely you can see it! It’s a half-mile long, right there in the middle of the photo. How about the ridges on the opposite side of the river? Photo unretouched. August 2026.
"Smoke 'em if you've got them," and baby, do we. Fires ravage more than brush, trees, meadows. Fires ravage lives, plans, communities. Where smoke lies, fires burn: why don't I see smoke in my mirror each morning? Where's smoke as I gaze on my love? Doesn't smoke envelop me when when I read or hear headlines? How can I see out of my car, encountering those who lack driving skills? How can we see our dawn when fires surround us? Our world's on fire, yet we bemoan smoke.
New candy? Snack? Those little video shorts which interrupt my sci-fi show? Philosophical stance? Exclamatory response to events? New television show? Those little pieces of my memory which seem to be intact?
Everything said Resonates with poetry. Meanings double upon meanings, symbolism wearing various guises. Language delivering beyond expectations. English's beauty.
I wrote it while flying cross-country at which point food and drink became more important. The clock kept ticking. By the time dinner had finished, it was nearly time for bed, and I just plain forgot the poem. (But will he post one tonight?…)
Sing, Muse!
Come, Muse! Grace these cells laden, encumbered, bracken- masked, alone Swing Inspiration's sword, cut these bonds which cruelly imprison. Sing! May these cells quiver for joys just now birthed, for new connections made, for purpose kindled, for feelings restored.
Missing my old choir buddy who died last December. He always, always, stayed deeply involved in life. In his 80’s, having just beat his battle with cancer, he trained for our local crisis hotline and began counseling the suicidal and the abuse victim. Anyway, thought of him today in mass, and this poem began.
November 2025
Why his clarity, his ocular spark, so near does death's shadow creep? Others, with near-dead eyes, long encumbered by that dark shadow, seem to have surrendered. What? Something. That spark, that signal, that engagement. Oddly, we note both say similar words: "I'm ready to die. Take me, any time," but our engaged example has said it all his life.
The Lord will keep your foot from stumbling. —Psalm 121:3a
Simultaneously he believed in volition and predestination. Quoting popular humor he noted, "No single raindrop believes it's responsible for the flood." Ever drops of his life accumulated Submerging possibilities until his life-as-sailing-bark found only one harbor, only one course. "Certainly I could refuse that harbor, this line," he thought while he beat course straight for it.
Joh Brunner’s The Shockwave Rider sought to show a near-future version of what constant change would look like, basing this premise on Alvin Toffler’s non-fictional book, Future Shock. In the process, however, I’ve believed more and more that he foresaw what our society has turned into 50 years since the book was published.
You wrote of youths walking tightropes over alligator pits, spectators screaming, "Fall! Fall!" all for "fun," for 'cash considerations.'
Do you recognize us now, John?
Show after 'reality' show trumpets screaming contestants. We live through damaged people baring their emotional problems all for prize money, that get-out-of-jail-free excuse for any type of boorishness. Inevitably it creeps into our society where it's okay to scream at someone if it's justifiable. John, we discover in your story that everyone breaks down, no one has privacy, that drugs keep us happy, docile, that society breaks into cults curated for profit, that criminals run what seemed to be our government.
We live secret lives hiding behind masks of mutual pleasantries as we walk our dogs, stretch our legs, work quietly in our yards. But these yards keep secrets poorly. They reveal us to our world more clearly than we could ourselves.
Eastward my neighbor's carefully curated lawn, shrubs, flowers give way to substantial but well-contained wildness, trees, vines, anything which chooses to grow there. "He bites off no more than chewable, this one," says his yard. "He values order, beauty, ornamentation. His dogs bark freely—why not? They come when he calls, they serve him. Who needs more?" I cannot see his front yard: perhaps something deeper? I think not; well-maintained in back means more so in front.
Southward lies bare minimum. Years ago, ten or more, she planted irises 'round her mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front or back, which can be seen from street or another's yard. In back lies one small patch of grass, some flowering trees. Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded solitude lurks her tool shed, never visited, never needed. Twice each month she brings in mowers to keep her lawn in check. She limps to deck, to her car. I surmise once someone else lived with her who took more interest.
Northward lies ambition, community, family. Just prior to pandemic's pause, its yard under new management, benches appeared around one fire pit. Party lights dangled between trees, firewood racks popped up along their back fence, which received repairs inside one year. Next they tore off rotten wood, remade their basement, attached two decks amazing for their sturdiness, their beauty. "When Jesus comes back, those decks will still be there," he told me. No lawn appeared in back after previous residents let chained dogs wear it down. Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping gear occupied some space. Everything about it screams "Family! Friends! Comfort!"
Here? Our yard underwent metamorphosis as I allowed 'natural' grass to grow unchecked until I realized its invasive nature. Then, shaggy unkemptness gave way to nothing-but-garden. Its haphazardly located plants reveal how poorly my dreams get realized. Our back yard, torn asunder by summer's torrents, reveals how ill- conceived our landscaper's plans, leaving nothing but soil to wash away...while revealing my trust in what others promise me. Now, unwanted green strangers laugh at me: "Go ahead, pull us up! We have more numbers, more patience than you. We will prevail." And so they shall. My yard says, "Good intentions, poor follow-through. Perhaps some sense of romance."
Green and gold (that’s its name) in our back yard. April 2026.
all the voices in my head 